Settle
by Lenny the Wicked
Summary: Agnes adjusts to life with Thibault. A collection of shorts following the events of "Rat."
1. Lullabies

When Agnes had nightmares, her mother heard her panting and held her, and stroked her hair, and sang a lullaby. Agnes held in her hands a piece of music, the words her mother always sang.

"Je, liuliai dukreli," she hummed, "Liuliai ruteli…"

Thibault entered the room, brow quirked. He ran a hair through his tawny hair and asked, "What song is that?"

"Hjordis used to sing it to me," she said. "It's in this book."

He frowned solemnly, and Agnes settled into a chair, reading over the lyrics. She could recall the tune clearly, it was only the words she struggled with. Then, "Byes-byes my girl, byes-byes my rue, sleep my dear dawn, sleep my flower."

It was strange to think that her mother was calling her a flower, and comparing her to a sunrise, when she was disrupting her sleep so regularly. Thibault was silent, settling into an armchair by the fire. He rocked unconsciously in his seat, and Agnes continued the tune.

"Je as greit suverpsiu plonai linelius, Isausiu tau drobelas, Isausiu tau drobelas," she sang softly, remembering her mother's touch and proud but gentle voice. Her mother was a good singer – she had to be. She was a bard, and to Agnes' knowledge she was a very good bard. She sang like a bird – far more delicate than she had any right to be. "Je vai as isausiu baltas drobelas, pasiusiu marskinelius, pasiusiu marskinelius."

Her own voice was soft, and raw, because she was choking on tears. She closed the book and set it on the table, and left for her bedroom. Thibault usually left her be when she needed to cry, since she hated showing emotion, but he followed and stopped at the door. Once again she hugged her pillow and started to sob into it.

Mother wasn't here to hold her. Mother wasn't there to sing to her.

"Agnes," he murmured into the door.

"Go away."

He was quiet, but by the lack of footsteps she supposed he hadn't left. She tried to keep her sobs contained, but it was difficult to say the least.

"I'm not much good at this," he murmured against her door, "But I can try."

"Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot, prete-moi ta plume, pour ecrire un mot," he sang, his voice cracking with dry laughter. His voice was not pretty nor strong, he could barely hold a note without an accompanying quiver. He was no bard, and he was no Hjordis. But Agnes never expected him to be. "Ma chandelle est morte, je n'ai plus de feu ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de Dieu."

Though Agnes hated to admit it, she stopped crying, and though she had been dwelling on her mother, all she could do was laugh at Thibault.

"What does that even mean?"

"Nothing important," he sighed, rubbing his temple. He smiled, and entered her room. "Do you feel better?"

She smirked. "Now that you've stopped singing I do."

"Ah, that's hardly fair," he laughed, taking a seat at the table. "You're comparing me to Hjordis again."

"At least I'm not comparing you to what Hjordis said you were," Agnes countered, smiling to the Breton. She stood, sat at the table, and they talked for a time.


	2. Cooking

At first, Thibault never let Agnes out of his sight. He was terrified that she would bolt – like a captive animal rather than a child. It was hard for him to see her as his daughter when all his life he'd thought Hjordis would handle it. He didn't even know how she died, and he was afraid to ask Agnes. Did she suffer? Did she die quickly? Was she murdered? Did she pick a fight?

Instead of asking these questions, he focused his attention on Agnes. Whens he stared off over the lake, was she dreaming of freedom? Was she reminiscing about the pockets she had picked, and the purses she had cut? Was she planning her escape?

Thibault thought her devious. He hadn't been able to visit the college in quite some time, but he still kept correspondence with some members. Even some court mages. Wylandriah entered some incomprehensible rant about something when he wrote to her, so he tended not to. Wuunferth mentioned that Agnes had lied about her name and broken out of her cell three times.

He was hesitant to lock the doors with that knowledge. He had no idea where she would find tools to pick locks with, but he had a feeling she could be very resourceful.

They sat at the dinner table, Agnes rereading _The Real Barenziah_ while he stared at her. "You're not eating," he noticed.

"You can't cook," she said smoothly, eyes never leaving the page.

He looked down at the stew he'd made. He hadn't been trying to make stew at all. "Think you can do better?"

"Sure," she offered. "You'd have to let me near an open flame."

He cringed. The way she said it, he was certain she would try to burn down the house. Or maybe she was playing on that. Devious.

"I won't burn down the house," she said. "And even if there is a fire, you can put it out. I've seen you do it."

He groaned, but gestured to the kitchen. She set down her book and set to work.

After a few minutes had past, paranoia struck him. What if she was running away? He stood up, carefully crouched like he'd seen her do, and crept towards the kitchen.

"I can hear you in there," she called. "You're an awful sneak. Wouldn't last ten minutes in the Guild."

"I don't want to hear you talk about them."

"Then don't do anything I would do."

His brow furrowed, but he sighed. Asking her not to talk about her fellow thieves in the Ratway was like asking him not to talk about the College. And she had always let him ramble about those days. Aside from that, she barely spoke of the Guild as it was. Only mentioned them in passing – "One of the Guild used to do that," she'd say, or "Brynjolf told me that."

"What are you making in there?"

"Roasting some rabbit."

"We don't have any rabbit," he recalled, narrowing his eyes. "Agnes, what are you doing?"

When he entered the kitchen, he saw that she was indeed roasting a rabbit. Where she found it, he had no idea.

"Are you sure that's safe to eat?"

"I caught it," she said. "This morning. I hung it on the balcony so nothing would get it."

"When did you catch it – how did you catch it?"

She grinned. "That's why sneaking's important."

As it turned out, Agnes knew how to cook. She'd learned how to make simple meals for herself living in the Ratway. She said that she would steal fish from the docks and cook them until they were a little brown. He didn't like that idea, but he had to admit that it was better than his pathetic attempt at potatoes and venison.

"Don't give me that look," she muttered.

"What look?"

"You look like you're afraid of me," she said. "That's stupid. You've seen me cowering and crying. You've seen me with skinned knees and wearing a skirt. You of all people should know I'm harmless."

"You injured a guard," he reminded her.

"He grabbed me," she said defensively. "I don't like being touched."

"I'll remember that next time I see you holding a knife."

She rolled her eyes and returned to her meal. "You're not funny."

"You have no sense of humor."

Agnes just shrugged.


	3. Chess

They sat at the table, a chess board between them. Agnes, apparently, had never learned to play chess. Hjordis had never enjoyed the game, so Thibault could understand why. Now, though, Thibault was thankful. He had something to do – he could teach her.

It didn't take long. He taught her the basic functions of each piece, and soon they were playing.

"Check," she said gleefully.

Thibault smiled, glanced at the board, and moved his Priest* to take her Queen. At the same time, he smiled. None of her pieces could interfere, and her King had no escape route. "Checkmate."

She stared at the bored, eyes wide, as though trying to prove him wrong. But she couldn't, even as she fingered at her pieces and opened her mouth to argue. When she could find no fault in his trap, she pouted and began to reset the pieces. "Could you get me something to eat?"

He smiled softly. "I'll boil you an egg."

He offered her an egg because he could barely cook anything else. Usually, they ate their food raw, in the case of fruit and vegetables, or Agnes prepared it. Boiling an egg was one of the few things he could do. He filled a pot with water, put some eggs in it, and set it over the fire. He kept an open ear for boiling.

When he had finished boiling the eggs, and had fished it out with only minor injury to himself, he put the eggs in a small bowl and stepped into the main hall. There, he saw Agnes playing a quick game against herself. He was relieved – he still thought that she was trying to escape whenever he left the room. He set the bowl in front of her and sat across the table. Rather than watching her, he pulled out a book and began to read quietly.

After a few minutes, and about two chapters, Agnes uttered an attention-grabbing sound.

Thibault looked up from his reading with a raised brow. "Yes?"

"I want a bow."

"That's a little much."

"I've wanted one for a while," she insisted. "I want to hunt."

"Didn't they give you a bow in that guild of yours?" he groaned, closing his book. "Taught you how to use a knife well enough…"

"No one could find a bow small enough for me," she murmured, ashamed. "I couldn't draw any of the bows they kept in the Cistern, and Brynjolf said I wouldn't really need it. But I want to learn how."

"If that…Guild couldn't get a bow, what makes you think I can?"

"There's a blacksmith in Falkreath. He could probably make something," Agnes insisted. "And I swear – I just think it'd be easier to hunt."

He narrowed his eyes, and breathed deeply. "I'll have a bow made for you when you beat me at chess."

She smiled. "Can we play now?"

And so they played. As they played, at first, they were quiet and focused. As time passed, Agnes asked, "How did you meet Hjordis?"

"In a tavern," he answered dully. "She was a bard. Sang _The Song of the Alchemists_. I had some time to talk to her, and so I took it."

A few moves passed in silence, before she asked, "Why did you leave?"

"It's complicated," he murmured. "Maybe…maybe some other time."

She nodded, and adjusted her pawn.

"Checkmate."

He stared at the board. He'd been watching it, and he knew that she hadn't removed any pieces that shouldn't have been removed. But somehow, she'd trapped him without so much as a hint. It hadn't been a very long game, but, he realized, her pawn only cut off the escape route he'd saved for his King.

"When can we go into town?" she asked when he could find no flaw in her trap.

He groaned, and rolled his head back in the chair. "Damn you, Agnes. This was supposed to take you longer…months…years…"

"I get it from you."

He laughed. "Oblivion take us both."

***Adjusted a title, since I've never heard "Bishop" used. I used "Priest" since it is similar, and more common in Tamriel.  
**


End file.
